Your Name Is The Splinter Inside Me
by hopelessromantic549
Summary: He kisses her, sinking into her with all the strength he has, his hands lingering on the curve of her waist, his tongue slipping past her defenses as easily as if she’s let her guard down. And maybe she has. Maybe she loves him enough to let him in. LP OS


**A/N: This is an alternate way LP could have gotten together in late Season 4. Not much to explain; just enjoy!**

**Title from song by Joshua Radin.**

_And I want to believe you when you tell me that it'll be okay_

She just about jumps out of his car, not looking back at his slightly stunned expression. She's annoyed he would ever presume to imply that she's a coldhearted bitch, especially considering the shit she's been going through lately. She expects him of all people to understand – he's her protector, her savior, her companion when no else will stand beside her – and she's hurt that he doesn't.

She struts angrily towards her house, a haze of red clouding her vision. It's raining, as it has been all day, and she lets out a low oath when she rifles through her bag only to remember that she left her umbrella by the door when she left this morning. She grunts angrily to herself and marches forward.

But just as she approaches her driveway, just as she believes that she's finally free…a voice calls out to her, clear and agonized.

"Wait."

It's not urgent, not really. He just sounds utterly heartbroken. And that's so much worse than the anger from earlier.

She wants to keep walking, she really does. First off, of course, she wants to get out of this godforsaken rain. But more importantly, she doesn't want to forgive him, doesn't want to accept that maybe he made a mistake, doesn't want to turn around and listen to him plead for clemency. She knows if he tries to apologize, she'll just fall into his arms. And she can't let herself do that again.

Not this time.

But he's still her best friend (or something close to it), and she still cares about him (still loves him, despite what she tells herself and the world). He sounds hurt, and he sounds sad, and he sounds regretful. And that's enough for her.

She spins around to face him, wet hair whipping her face just hard enough to hurt. She lets the hot anger stay in her eyes, because he deserves to be repentant. He deserves to beg for her forgiveness (and he will, she knows he will).

"What?" she accuses, and he instinctively shrinks back, shocked by her venomous tone. He knew she's mad, but he had no idea she's _that_ mad. He realizes he better tread carefully from here on out. He doesn't want to get a hairdryer thrown at him. (Or some other painful and potentially life-threatening household object).

But he's distracted by how beautiful she looks. (He always is.)

"Nothing," he finally stammers, looking at his feet.

She's halfway turned around again before he remembers why he ran after her. "No," he murmurs. And even though she's far down that driveway, she hears him.

"Lucas Eugene Scott, you better have a very good reason for keeping me out in this damn rain," she threatens, coming closer to him, but only so she can point a finger at him. She's shaking with barely suppressed wrath now, her shoulders heaving as she struggles to control herself. She just can't believe he has the nerve to do…whatever it is that he's doing.

And she can't believe she hasn't just run away from him yet.

"I'm sorry," he blurts out earnestly, searching her face for a waver, for a hint that maybe she's warming a little. Her lips pull up at the corners, but otherwise she's stoic.

But…not quite. To the untrained eye, Peyton just looks like she's bored. But to someone who knows her well (someone like Lucas), she has that familiar expression on her face, that edgy look that so clearly conveys _yes you've apologized, but that's not enough; spit it out so I can get on with my life_. She puts on that look a lot when he's around, probably to make him feel guilty for his various misdemeanors (cheating and getting drunk and threatening his father).

It always makes him cave.

He realizes that is exactly her intention now, and that bothers him. But he won't deny her this. He can't deny her anything.

"I shouldn't…" he trails off at last, expecting her to finish his sentence. But she simply waits, hand on her hip, and he sighs painfully. She's going to make him work for this. She's going to make him get on his knees and beg, and he's not looking forward to it.

But he'll do it anyway, because he can't stand it when they fight. It's truly the worst feeling in the world.

"I shouldn't have said what I said," he finally acknowledges. "I don't think you're a bitch, not at all."

"Well, thanks," she counters sarcastically. "That matters _so _much." She smiles simperingly, letting him know he's by no means forgiven.

He ignores her, though, rubbing the back of his head in that unforgettable, confusingly entrancing movement, and whispers reverently, "I don't think you're a bitch. I think you're…I think you're beautiful."

He looks up at her, clear, honest resolve shining in his eyes, and she can't doubt him. He means what he's said.

Oh no.

"What?" She screeches. She takes a panicked step backwards, clapping a hand over her mouth, giggling nervously. Suddenly she's not angry with him anymore. She's just frightened. He's not supposed to make declarations like this, he's really not. They're friends and they tease each other and why oh why does he have to do this…

He holds up a hand. "Just let me finish."

"Okay…" She's worried and hesitant and all that, but he takes a step closer to her and cradles her face in his hands, as he does sometimes when her memories threaten to overwhelm her. She suddenly feels very fragile, very tender, and as she holds his blue-eyed gaze, she realizes she's been ignoring her feelings for him for too long.

He takes a deep breath, blowing the hair plastered to his forehead out of his eyes, and murmurs frankly, "I think you're amazing."

She shudders, but it's not from the cold. His words are just too beautiful to be true. She's spent so long comfortable in the knowledge that he'll never want anything more than friendship with her, and it physically hurts to consider any other possibility. This is too dangerous to be healthy.

He shakes his head in answer to her obvious incredulity, a sad, bemused smile flickering across his impossibly tan features. "And you can't even see it."

She tries to glare at him, tries to make it clear that she doesn't need his half-hearted compliments right now. But she just doesn't have the energy anymore. She thinks she's tired of fighting him. She's tired of sitting next to him and feeling his warmth seep into her body, tired of holding him close when it's so cold outside that their breath fogs up the windows, tired of falling further and further and not being able to see the ground. She's just so tired.

"Don't do this," she whispers, and it's a plea, but a weak one. She knows it's no good for her to let him go on, knows she should stop him, so she tries. But she _wants_ him to keep talking. She wants it all.

She's lucky (thank god). He knows her better than she thinks – he always has. So he only grins ear to ear, stepping even closer to her, stroking her cheek thoughtfully. He leans a little closer and murmurs, "I think you're smart and intriguing and kind and just…_alive_."

The words fall out of his mouth easily and casually, as if he's talking about the weather. She admires his nonchalance.

She wishes she could be that cavalier about their nonexistent relationship.

"I want to be around you all the time," he confesses, and she blushes, averting her eyes. She's never been good at taking compliments (even though this isn't really a compliment, it still makes her feel uncomfortable). She wishes he would _justpleasestop_.

But he doesn't, of course. And she loves him enough not to care.

He leans even further toward her, closing his eyes, and rests his forehead against hers. She lets out a gasp of shock but doesn't push him away. She never pushes him away.

He sighs contentedly and whispers, "I love when you make witty comments and take me down a notch. I love when you stand up for people being bullied in the hallways. I love when you sing softly to yourself. I love when you throw your head back and laugh at the stupidest thing. I love when you –"

She pushes him away roughly, her hands straining against his broad chest, her forehead wrenched from his, her face hot and her cheeks flushed with color. She's indignant now, pissed off. She can't believe he's saying what she thinks he's saying. She can't believe he has the nerve to recite all the things he loves about her, like they're in second grade and he's writing her a Valentine's Day card or something.

It's all so cliché. And much too fantastical to be reality.

But he doesn't seem so fazed. "What?" he asks innocently, exasperation settling neatly in his eyes. He throws his hands in the air, as if that will help him understand her better.

She hisses involuntarily and spits out through clenched teeth, "Are you _kidding_ me?"

His eyes go blank, wide with shock. "_What_?"

"You heard me," she repeats evenly, "I asked you if you're kidding me." She's pleased at how flippant her tone is, and decides to experiment further. She shrugs deliberately, and a spasm of pain flits across his face.

She immediately feels horrible. (She's never been good at hurting him).

"I'm not kidding," he grunts, and she's shocked anew by the fierce determination in those steel blue eyes of his. "I'm not being funny."

Her mouth falls open, because he's looking at her like he used to look at her, before things changed and hearts broke and she let herself believe that he didn't want anything to do with her. He's looking at her like he cares, really cares. Cares about _her_.

And it scares her.

But she takes a step towards him, allowing him to take her face in his hands again, because she's Peyton Elizabeth Sawyer, and she's not scared of anything. Not even love. (At least she tells herself that).

She looks up at him and asks gently, almost teasingly, "Well then. What are you trying to say?"

He shakes his head, muttering something about _not the right time _and _should have planned better _and _have to tell her now_. She catches the last part most potently, and gasps lightly.

"Tell me _what_?" She struggles to keep the raging curiosity out of her voice. She wants to know what he means, of course, but she's that what he says next will change everything. Scared that whatever he tells her will be exactly what she's been trying to tell him for the past year and a half.

Scared that she won't be strong enough to say it back.

He takes a deep breath, then opens his eyes and stares at her with wonder and willpower and all those other magnificent nouns that start with a w that he would most certainly be better at coming up with.

There's a beat of silence, a moment when the sun bursts through the clouds and shines fleetingly, a point in time when all is still and the only sound is their heavy breathing.

And then:

"I _love_ you."

Tears suddenly stream down her face, and she shakes her head in happy delirium. "You love me?" She is so hesitant, uncertain. He wishes he had given her more reason to have faith in him in the beginning.

"Yes," he responds eagerly, bending his head so he can kiss her.

But she murmurs, "Don't."

He immediately draws back, stunned by her rejection. He had thought for sure that once he said those three magical words, everything between them would be okay again. He had thought that if he could just get her to see that he loved her and only her, they'd never be apart.

He realizes he should have known better. He realizes he should have understood that he's put this girl through so much; why would she want to be with him?

He also realizes he underestimated the force of her reaction to such monumental news, and he whispers apologetically, "I guess this isn't really the best time, I guess I should have known, I didn't –"

But she cuts him off, pressing a gentle finger to his lips and murmuring lightly, "It's not that, Luke."

He shudders at the nickname.

"It's just that I'm scared."

She says it nonchalantly, but there's real terror in her emerald eyes, and he has to resist the urge to just pull her into the hold of his arms. He wants to protect her from everything, but he knows he can't. All he can really do is love her.

So he whispers in return, "I'm scared, too." He smiles softly. She smiles widely.

And then he kisses her, sinking into her with all the strength he has, his hands lingering on the curve of her waist, his tongue slipping past her defenses as easily as if she's let her guard down. (And maybe she has).

He kisses her hard, and he kisses her long, and he doesn't let her pull away, even when she's on the verge of crying. He won't let her let this go. Not now. Not ever, really.

She's trembling when they finally break apart, her eyes sparkling with unshed tears, her arms laced loosely around his neck, her lips slightly open as she breathes erratically. He asks her what's wrong, that trademark note of concern seeping into his voice, and she brushes him off with practiced breeziness.

He's relentless, and in answer, she can only whisper:

"I love you, Luke."

He nods, his lips curving into her favorite crooked smile, and promises that he'll never leave her again.

She sighs and hope he's telling the truth.

She knows he is, though. Because she won't be letting him go either.

He'll be hers forever.

_fin_


End file.
